


Time Heals All Wounds

by PassWithoutATrace



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21901639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PassWithoutATrace/pseuds/PassWithoutATrace
Summary: A look at Fenris and Delia's relationship over time as scars and wounds heal.*Mentions of blood*
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 12





	Time Heals All Wounds

They were at another event celebrating the Champion, the two year anniversary of her defeat of the Arishok in single combat. Savior of the city, resplendent in yet another ball gown, the fabric cut low in the back, nearly nonexistent until it met the top of her skirts. With her back turned to Fenris he could see the seams of healed wounds that stood out on her skin, a darker hue against her pale complexion. His eyes traced them as she talked animatedly with a noble, her arms gesturing wide and stretching the scars a little better for him to see. While the city liked to laud her as their One Last Hope against a Qunari invasion, it very easily forgot how high the cost had nearly been for her to defend it. The rippled skin, grown over what had been holes in her body, both mesmerized and pained him. He was the one that had suggested it after all, the duel. He was the one that had trapped her in with the Arishok, locking her into a battle that could have, should have even, killed her. Her scars were his reminder-- despite all she may seem, Hawke was mortal. Hawke was fragile, fallible. She should not be risked. He spent his time mentally tracing her puckered skin in order to freeze its pattern forever in his mind, the warning of what nearly was two years ago and what could certainly be in the future.

“Fenris?” He blinked hard at the sound of her voice, much closer than he had anticipated. When had she made her way this direction? When had he lost focus? She was looking up at him curiously, brows knit in concern as her gray eyes searched his face. “I should be able to escape now, if you would be so kind as to escort me home?” She had no need of an escort, not really. But she hated going alone to these functions, the stuffy mansions filled with people who only made a fuss about her when it was convenient for them. She generally sought out at least one of her friends to accompany her, a buffer for the world of nobility in which she had more recently found herself submerged. That evening she had knocked on his door all dressed to go, hands fisted in the fabric of her skirts and expression expectant. He could not be sure why she always came to him first, why none of their other companions had joined them in a great while. Perhaps it was because he had the least going on in his personal life, an empty mansion and bitterness could only take up so much of his time. Perhaps it was something deeper. The hope-no, the _idea_ -twisted his stomach, feelings he had tried his best to avoid bubbling to the surface of his thoughts. It had been two years, too late now to change things. She was still looking up at him, her expression growing more serious as his silence stretched on. 

“If you are ready,” he replied, voice low as he stepped away from the wall, arm extended toward the exit. Without further comment she nodded, eyes narrowed as she looked up at him one last time before she moved toward the doorway. He fell into step next to her, his extended hand just barely brushing her back, the toughened skin of old wounds passing under his fingers and giving him goosebumps. 

* * *

They were on the floor of his mansion, blankets and sheets haphazardly pulled from his bed and pooled around them. Her head was on his chest, eyelashes fluttering against his skin, both of them sticky with sweat. His hand passed up and down the flushed skin of her back, cataloguing the feel of how it dragged against the palm of his hand, the ridges and bumps of her scars. She had come to speak with him, or rather, check on him after their confrontation with Varania and Danarius in the Hanged Man. In the time since that short conversation, not much had been said, their feelings communicated in a different manner.

“Fenris?” Her voice was quiet, vulnerable. 

“Hm?” His acknowledgment of her question was equally as quiet as he shifted beneath her, propping his arm behind his head to have a better view of her as she lay there, her limbs tangled with his, her fingers tracing small patterns along his chest. The light of the fire danced across her skin, highlighting her curves and imperfections in equal measure. 

“You’re quiet.” The statement hung heavy between them, her fingers suddenly stopping their patterns while her arms tightened on him, pulling herself closer. His physical response was a reflexive one, the hand on her back naturally stopping its trail to hold her closer as well, as if suddenly afraid she would be taken from him. “Is something wrong?” Her voice was not any more than a whisper and yet her words seemed loud in the space of the room. His fingers played over one of her scars, the raised skin oddly smooth to the touch, jagged above the plane of her back. A loud pop from the fire prompted him to answer, suddenly aware that she was tense under his touch, as if ready to run. 

“No, nothing is wrong,” He said quietly, his voice gentle. She did not relax right away, muscles still tense even as her fingers began to trail along his skin again, patterns more nervous than before. She shifted a little against him, her leg pulling separate from his to stick back in a slightly different position. His hand resumed its trek along her back.

“Okay,” She paused, her head ducking further from his gaze, face firmly directed away from him. “We can talk about it. If there’s something to talk about.” Her words were halting as she spoke, her emotions transparent behind them. He felt a smile tug at his lips and he bent his head to press a kiss to her hair. 

“I never thought we would be here,” He murmured, his hand stopping at her shoulder to press her closer to him. 

“On your floor?” She sounded confused, her face turning upwards to look at him, eyes wide, worry hidden in their depths. 

“Together.” He allowed himself to smile more fully this time as he watched her expression change, a happy blush rising in her cheeks as a smile of her own pulled her lips upward. She pushed herself up and kissed him slowly, a need born of lost years beginning to burn between them again. He pulled her closer, carefully rolling her onto her back as he was swept away by the strength of their shared emotion, the dam all of a sudden broken. His hand followed a scar along her back, up toward her hip, his fingers digging in to anchor him to this moment in time. He did not want to lose her, not again.

* * *

They were in bed together. Not his bed this time, but theirs, situated in a small hut in some cold, forgotten wood of Ferelden. They had traversed immense distances since the fight for Kirkwall had reached an explosive conclusion. In a pattern that Fenris was intimately familiar with, they had packed everything important and left--Delia taking him to the country of her birth, leading him down paths she undoubtedly traveled as child, far from the watchful eyes of templars. Despite their precarious situation she had seemed happy, sharing stories of her life in Ferelden, her family, her childhood. She grabbed his hand and pulled him along, pointing out flowers and herbs that held no more meaning to him than the next but all somehow held a story from her past. That was until a contact of Varric’s had found them, the parchment he held sending them tumbling over the ledge of neutrality they had so carefully been treading. 

His hand had snaked its way under her shirt, the feel of her skin under his fingers somehow more comforting than soft fabric. She was curled into his side, breathing slow in sleep, her fingers pressed to his skin, breaking the lines of his tattoos. He peered down at her, studying her face as his lips turned downward. Unconsciously, he began to trace the largest scar still present on her back. Many of the smallest scars of her battle with the Arishok had shrank into mere blemishes on her skin. Others, not so small, slowly softened and were beginning to follow their now tiny cousins. But there was one that had stayed nearly the same in all the time that had passed, the skin thick and hard, a mottled reddish pink color that had a fraternal twin on Delia’s abdomen. In a morbid sort of way it was a favorite of his to trace, it’s ragged form and shape taking him back to a darker time. This particular scar, and its twin, were the result of the Arishok’s sword, nearly as large as Delia herself, piercing through her and lifting her off her feet. At the time Fenris couldn’t breathe, petrified as he watched her lifted and then thrown into a nearby pillar, her blood splattered in an arch showing her flight through the air. He pondered this as his finger continued to trail along the scar’s edge, the thoughts of Delia’s near death years ago more appealing than what she was about to do within the next twenty four hours. 

“Fenris?” Her voice was groggy and startled him from his thoughts. 

“Yes?” His finger slowed on her back, changing pace to something more soothing as she slowly woke up. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” Even though her voice was still heavy with sleep, it carried a certainty that made his heart constrict. He chose not to say anything, not sure his words would help him at this point. When it became clear he was not going to respond she curled further into his side, pressing a kiss to his ribs. 

“And I _will_ come back to you.” Her breath ghosted across his skin as she said it, goosebumps rising in its wake. Still he said nothing, not trusting himself, his finger taking one last, long drag along the edge of her scar before he pulled away. He did not want to start their day with the same argument they had ended with the previous night. He turned his back on her and felt her weight shift to the edge of the bed, then leave it all together, leaving him with the one thought that had gnawed at him since Varric’s letter arrived-- _Will I lose her?_

* * *

They were home, a term he had never really considered until she had introduced it to him. Kirkwall had survived, despite the chaos it had spread to the rest of Thedas. They were currently in attendance of some event or other thrown by the new Viscount of Kirkwall, none other than Varric Tethras himself. He held her close as they slowly turned in time to the music filling the air around them, her head resting on his shoulder. His hand at her back absently traced the large scar on Delia’s exposed back as he kept them moving, his thoughts wandering. She sighed against him, her hand squeezing his as she nestled a little closer, her nose nearing his collar bone. 

“Is something wrong?” Her question seemed out of place, the luxury of the atmosphere around them at odds with her wary tone. 

“No,” He paused, giving her a curious look, “ _Should_ something be wrong?” She looked up to him and frowned slightly, her expression calculating. 

“No, but you trace that scar when you’re worried. Are you sure everything is all right?” Her gray eyes flicked across his face, searching. He found himself taken aback by her observation. It was something so small and yet it held so much weight. It was an unconscious habit of his, her scars had become a distraction for his worries over the years. How she managed to continually know more about him than he knew himself, he had no idea. 

“Everything is just fine,” He replied, dipping his head to kiss her, pulling her close and wanting to erase the worry from her mind. She responded immediately, the hand around his neck tightening, fingers twisting into his hair as she tried to press even closer to him. They were interrupted by someone clearing their throat nearby, Delia the one to break the kiss as she turned to look at who needed their attention. It was an attendant of Varric’s, not one Fenris had seen before, a messy bundle of clothes held in his arms. 

“Sorry to intrude, Messere,” the attendant began, his gaze directed at Delia before he nodded toward Fenris and continued. “It seems the young Master Hawke has fallen asleep.” The fine clothes squirmed as he said this, a tuft of messy black hair becoming visible. Delia smiled, gently stepping away from Fenris as she reached out for the child, quietly shushing him as he clung to the man’s shoulder. With a little coaxing the boy was passed over to her arms, his sleepy green eyes looking up toward Fenris before he snuggled into Delia’s neck. 

“Thank you for watching him,” her voice was quiet against the music, her eyes on their son. “We don’t get much time alone anymore.” She smiled again at the attendant before she turned back toward Fenris. “I suppose this means it’s time for us to return home.”

“I can inform the Viscount, Messere, if it would save you the trouble,” The attendant seemed to be itching to get away. Fenris stepped forward, brushing the hair from the small face on Delia’s shoulder before meeting the waiting man’s gaze. 

“That would be greatly appreciated.” He had barely uttered the last word before the attendant was gone, easily ducking into the crowd around them. Delia chuckled softly as she adjusted their son toward her hip, the child’s leg sliding to rest on top of her large belly, her pregnancy becoming more visible under the long, flowing skirts of her gown. 

“I can carry him home,” Fenris offered, hand outstretched. Delia merely shook her head, instead twining her free hand with his and looking up at him warmly. 

“It won’t be long before he’s not the only one in my arms. Let him have one more night.” She squeezed his hand and Fenris carefully pulled her to his side, pressing a kiss to her temple. He didn’t argue as they walked away from the golden room, his hand passing over her back as they made it to the door. It settled on her waist, his thumb tracing along the side of her belly, everything he cared for held in his grasp.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back and have always been fond of it. Please let me know what you think as I ease myself back into writing here :)


End file.
